call Dicky, so as not to muddle the
narration--pointed to the reddy thing that the dogs were sniffing at.

"It's a real live fox," he said. And so it was. At least it was
real--only it was quite dead--and when Oswald lifted it up its head was
bleeding. It had evidently been shot through the brain and expired
instantly. Oswald explained this to the girls when they began to cry at
the sight of the poor beast; I do not say he did not feel a bit sorry
himself.

The fox was cold, but its fur was so pretty, and its tail and its little
feet. Dicky strung the dogs on the leash; they were so much interested
we thought it was better.

"It does seem horrid to think it'll never see again out of its poor
little eyes" Dora said, blowing her nose.

"And never run about through the wood again; lend me your hanky, Dora,"
said Alice.

"And never be hunted or get into a hen-roost or a trap or anything
exciting, poor little thing," said Dicky.

The girls began to pick green chestnut leaves to cover up the poor fox's
fatal wound, and Noel began to walk up and down making faces, the way he
always does when he's making poetry. He cannot make one without the
other. It works both ways, which is a comfort.

"What are we going to do now?" H. O. said; "the huntsman ought to cut
off its tail, I'm quite certain. Only, I've broken the big blade of my
knife, and the other never was any good."

The girls gave H. O. a shove, and even Oswald said, "Shut up." For
somehow we all felt we did not want to play fox-hunting any more that
day. When his deadly wound was covered the fox hardly looked dead at
all.

"Oh, I wish it wasn't true!" Alice said.

Daisy had been crying all the time, and now she said, "I should like to
pray God to make it not true."

But Dora kissed her, and told her that was no good--only she might pray
God to take care of the fox's poor little babies, if it had had any,
which I believe she has done ever since.

"If only we could wake up and find it was a horrid dream," Alice said.
It seems silly that we should have cared so much when we had really set
out to hunt foxes with dogs, but it is true. The fox's feet looked so
helpless. And there was a dusty mark on its side that I know would not
had been there if it had been alive and able to wash itself.

Noel now said, "This is the piece of poetry:

"Here lies poor Reynard who is slain,
He will not come to life again.
I never will the huntsman's horn
Wind s